


I Look at You (and Wham! I'm Head over Heels)

by ByeByeHoverfly



Series: Turn Into [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: + gender dysphoria, Facial Shaving, Fluff, Insecure Paul, John is Sweet, M/M, Trans Male Character, body image issues, just so much fluff really, minor mentions of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25431727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByeByeHoverfly/pseuds/ByeByeHoverfly
Summary: Paul never quite got the hang of shaving. Thank God he's got John.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: Turn Into [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837249
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	I Look at You (and Wham! I'm Head over Heels)

**Author's Note:**

> Not strictly sure where this came from, but…here we are! Trans!paul must've haunted me in a dream or something. (Or maybe memories of teaching myself to shave.)
> 
> Anyway: this'll rot your teeth, lads.

“ _Shit, I_ —what the _fuck_.”

_Well—that couldn't be good_. John padded into the bathroom, his own stockier figure joining Paul's lithe one in the mirror. The young man had under-lathered shaving cream dripping from half his face, a razor in hand; a blot of red was smudged near the frustrated purse of his lips.

Paul's eyes met John's through the mirror. “When do I stop cutting meself doing this?”

John shook his head. “You don't—ye just learn how to stick those little paper bits t’yer face." He leaned over to poke at Paul's soapy cheeks, as if pressing down little squares of tissue.

"Easy for you to say," Paul grumbled, batting John's offending finger away. "It was never this bad for you—yer face doesn’t grow a forest.”

John hummed and considered that, wrapping arms around Paul's waist and rubbing his forestless chin over Paul's equally bare shoulder. "Maybe we could get you an electric razor.”

John could feel Paul's nod against his temple, but his reflection betrayed a slight grimace of apprehension before it could be tamped down. John's heart flopped sideways. "Or I could just help you finish up?"

Chin still perched on Paul's shoulder, John peered up to look into his boyfriend's eyes. He loved those eyes—much better in person, since they were so perfectly lopsided. A mirror image could never do Paul justice.

Paul nodded silently, placed the razor in John's open hand, and settled back against his solid body as John rinsed the blade in warm water from the tap.

John's hand was careful as he raised blade to jaw. It was hardly the first time they'd done this; that had been years ago, in John's house on Menlove Avenue, the older lad showing Paul how to drag a razor smoothly against the grain on his cheek. He'd been terrified, then, of cutting Paul—even if the damage he could do with a safety razor was minimal. The hysteria John had experienced from seeing a bit of blood pearl on Paul's cupid's bow had been…excessive, in retrospect. But John was still as gentle now, with his 22-year-old boyfriend, as he'd been with the nervous teenager in that bathroom.

It was impossible to look at Paul without catching glimpses of the boy John had first fallen for. He had the same full lips, the same button nose—the same dark eyelashes, brushing softly against cheeks still flushed pink from his recent quarrel with the razor. It had always been such a lovely face. _Beautiful_ , John's brain insisted, though he wouldn't say it out loud.

Paul had never known just how alluring John found him, because John had never found the words. He didn't know how to tell Paul that his pink mouth was only more attractive surrounded by coarse, dark stubble—that his lashes made his big eyes smoulder, that the black curls on thick thighs were enough to make John's mouth water. The same features John thought were so perfectly complimented by Paul's masculinity, Paul found uncomfortable and mismatched. He couldn't express to Paul—at least not without the man's traitorous mind twisting it into something ugly—that he was a beautiful man.

But he could show his adoration through his touches, if not his words. He could cradle Paul's jaw and pull skin taut to save it from friction, wipe away smudges of shaving cream with a gentle thumb. He could treat Paul's face with uncharacteristic caution: the kind that made Paul chuckle and call him daft, but filled John with the comfy, buzzy feeling of caring for something precious.

The shave was slow, quiet work. By the time John had finished, Paul's lips had gone slack and slightly parted, his head lolling back against John's shoulder. John ran a hand through Paul's hair; as his nails scratched the scalp, hazel eyes fluttered open.

"Were you asleep, luv?" John murmured, his voice coming out almost in a whisper.

"Nah," Paul insisted, despite immediately being cut off by a yawn, "just resting a bit." His eyes roamed John's face as they readjusted to the light, blinking drowsily. "You took quite a long time."

John chuckled. "Well, you’ve got quite a lot of hair."

Paul's lip curled, arching upwards in distaste. His eyes shut again. "I do, don’t I."

John had to bite his lip to keep from cursing himself aloud. He knew how self-conscious Paul had got about his generous body hair—in moments that cut John deeper each time, he'd heard his partner's comments about looking like _that Barbie my kid nephew scribbled on in sharpie_ or, pre-top surgery, _a breast-feeding gorilla_.

It wasn't even just that Paul made jokes about his body to cover up more serious emotions; John had the strong suspicion that Paul really did feel like a joke. Something to be looked at with confusion or amusement, not admiration—and certainly not desire. It made John's heart ache helplessly in his chest. He felt unequipped to prove to Paul just how attractive he was—but, as Paul's boyfriend, there were some tools only he possessed.

John pressed his face down into the crook of Paul's neck, inhaling deeply. " _Mm-hm_. I love it."

Paul laughed, as if John was being funny, but it went breathy and high pitched as John nuzzled against his pulse point.

"I _really_ love it," John growled, slipping a hand down Paul's briefs to run along his thigh. His fingers played lightly with the hairs there, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin and making Paul give little shivers in his arms.

Shivering became full-body trembling as John lowered another hand, rubbing Paul's thighs as his mouth came to rest, open and wet, on Paul's neck. He gripped the flesh near Paul's arse and nibbled teasingly about his jaw, drawing a deep sigh from Paul that made John's face and groin flush hot with arousal.

John was hooking his thumbs round Paul's waistband, suckling at a sensitive spot under his ear—

—when Paul pushed him away gently but firmly, squinting at himself in the mirror. He thumbed over an area below his lip, leaving John to balk at him. "You've missed a bit—above me chin cleft," the young man stated flatly.

John scoffed, slotting his head back in Paul's neck and forcing him to stretch his chin upwards to see the offending hairs in the mirror. "Always the perfectionist, our Paul."

"What, do you want me walking round with a soul patch?" Paul teased, grabbing the razor back off the counter and running it briefly under the tap.

"Frankly, I don't want you upright at all, at the moment."

Paul tutted. "That’s taking a lot of good positions off of the table," he mumbled, through lips he'd sucked in to create a flat surface for the blade.

John groaned, feeling another pulse of heat in his lower body from the images Paul had brought to mind. He pressed his lips into the beginnings of a love bite on the side of Paul's neck, lapped at it with his tongue, before suddenly pinching the reddened skin between his teeth.

Which turned out not to be a good idea, given the yelp and stream of (unfortunately not aroused) cursing that ensued.

“Oh, fuck… _God dammit, Lennon_!”

Paul had blood running down onto his chin, smearing bright red in the water he'd used to wet the razor. John jumped back, apologising profusely, and hurried to grab the alcohol antiseptic from the medicine cabinet.

"Ey'ar—for the tetanus," he explained, handing the bottle to Paul, who thanked him with an eye-roll and a muttered 'ta'.

John plopped himself on the counter, watching with some guilt as Paul cleaned the gash on his chin.

"I used to watch me da shave his face I was little," Paul said after some moments of silence, keeping his eyes fixed on the mirror. "He seemed confused about why I'd get so entranced by the whole…y'know, shaving process."

"Yeah?" John was picturing a tiny Paul in a tiny bathroom, perched on the toilet lid to watch Jim McCartney at his morning toilette. Little nose wrinkling in concentration, the way his own Paul's had always done. It was a terribly cute thought.

Paul snorted. "Yeah. 'Borrowed' his razor one time, gave meself a cut right down the cheek. Tried to cover it with one of those bits of tissue, y'know, like I'd seen Da do, but Mam made me put a plaster on it instead—honestly think I was more upset about that than I was about the actual cut."

Paul looked fond of the memory, but the smile on his face was just-so-slightly sour. _Self-deprecating_ , John thought—it was the expression he knew Paul wore when reprimanding himself for _being irrational_ , for having thoughts he couldn't make sense of.

John hopped off the counter. He went straight to the box of tissues in the cabinet, tore off a little square, and stood himself beside Paul, who turned to him with a confused twist to his mouth. When he saw what John held pinched in his fingers, his face melted into fondness. "Thanks, John," he said softly, reaching out to take it. But John ignored the offered hand; instead, he raised his own hands, holding the tissue to Paul's chin, sealing it down with a press of his lips.

As soon as he'd done it, John thought the kiss might have been a bit too much—a bit too intense for Paul to want to deal with right now, while he was already raw from childhood memories. But when John pulled back, Paul's eyes were shining as brightly as he'd ever seen them. _Fuck me, he's beautiful._ In the next second Paul wrapped his arms about John's neck and leaned in.

This kiss wasn't the most objectively-perfect they'd ever shared. Their lips were slightly bitter from the shaving cream; John was overly ginger with Paul, not wanting to aggravate his little cuts or disturb the tissue on his chin. But it was sweet, and it was so soft, and John could have just melted into a little puddle of happiness. Because Paul was kissing him like he _understood_ —no words needed.

And even when the little paper fluttered to the floor, dislodged by eager kisses as the two men moved to the bedroom, nothing was lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please lmk if/where I fucked up x


End file.
